Becoming a Butterfly: Scout's Theme evolving into Modern Times
by Wild Jester
Summary: Personal experience in India, breaking the barriers of culture, The Jester ventures out in the land of Scout's in which men should learn to accept one another based on common facets of society. A feature of society that Lee's TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD's modern-day readers yearn for. A reference to Jimenez's BREAKING THROUGH, in which Scout's "theme" is gravely needed.


Chirag Gokani

April 18, 2013

Becoming a Butterfly:  
Scout's Theme evolving into Modern Times

The airport exit was a gateway to hell.

A blind man with no legs begged for money. Pathetic camfires served as stoves. Muddy tarps were makeshift roofs. Tin sheets pelted with bullet holes resembled walls. Shanty houses went on for miles.

I guess they could tell where I was from. They could probably sense an American from a mile away. Five or six barefoot and skeletal homeless children ran to me begging and pleading for something in some lost language I had never heard.

I watched where I placed my feet, being careful not to step on shards of glass from beer bottles or mosquito-infested potholes. "I need to find the taxi," I told to myself. "I've got to get myself out of this dirty place."

I had to figure out how to get out of there, so I walked over to a local man who was sitting on a tree stump smoking a cigar. I was just about a yard away from him when I remembered I had no way of communicating with him. Before we could make eye contact, I backed off.

So I kept walking aimlessly, down this shady, rat-infested slum. Dark black clouds loomed above. I felt a few drops biting my neck..

"_Ey, yar! Bhaya!_" Oh man. Without turning around, I knew it was another beggar who recognized I was American.

"_Ey yar, chalo, taxi-baxi he, ayah he._" I pretended to ignore him.

"_Arrey, tum ekk American he…ye log Engrez!_" I guess I my conscience took over my actions. I couldn't help but turn around to see who this guy was and what he needed from me.

He was a balding man with grayish patches on the sides of his head. His eyes looked somewhere deep off into the clouds. He was barefoot and his feet were scarred. Behind him, he had a rusty old bicycle with a cart attatched to it. It took me a while to realize this was my taxi.

"_Ey, yar, khaha chaleche?_"

I had no idea what he said. I just pointed to my map.

"Take. Me. You take me. Please," I said slowly, giving him a pitiful look.

"_Aha, aha! Ye rusta ane a rusta._" He pointed to the cart, waiting for me to get in.

I climbed in. It felt like the oxidized metal frame it was going to snap.

As the manual-powered taxi got moving, I realized I had lost a language. The language which my parents and my ansestors spoke for thousands of years had ended with me. It was dismal. "How am I going to blend in here?" I thought. "I wish I could talk to these people. My people." And I fell into a deep sleep I could not contain, suffering the effects of severe jetlag.

I woke up outside, beneath the dark, pure blue sky. The clouds had disappeared and the sun was setting, shining on an orange brick house.

In front of me was the taxi driver's frail and trembling hand, asking for a tip. I looked into his grayed eyes. "If only I knew Hindi…how much could I learn from this man?" I asked myself. He must have lived through so much. I dug into my pocket and gave him the first bill I could find.

I was outside my older second cousin's house. He was a musician, and being one myself, I was more than eager to speak with him. I had a whole list of questions that could go from the Earth to the moon a hundred times, and I knew I was in for something.

My shadow was long on the wooden, elevated porch. The lock on the door clicked. The door opened slowly, creaking, revealing my cousin's long, jet-black, curly hair. His smile exposed his flashing white teeth.

He led me into his house and promply began blabbering in Hindi.

He went on and on, not realizing I had no clue what he was saying. When he stopped, I replied idioticly, "English? You know any _Ungreiz_?"

He shook his head but then, after a few seconds, he shrugged his shoulders. I followed him into a small, dimly lit clay room. In it was a gleaming guitar, a leather _tabla _set, a few _sitars_ and a dark cedar mandolin.

I froze when saw I that mandolin.

I had been playing mandolin for only about a year, but I loved it and had been hoping I could play for him. He must have realized my enthusiasmm, so he gestured with his hand for me to play it. I picked it up, tuned it to Western tuning and began strumming out some chords. He caught along quickly, and we spent the rest of the evening and night playing Bob Marley's _Jammin'_.

We had no common language or culture, but the music connected us. The deep chords resounded in both of our minds.

There are always things out there that allow us to tear down the barrier of cultural differences. Lost in the music, I forgot the different ways of these people.

The purpose of seeing new people is to break through these culture barriers and forget variations between us. Doing this allows us to realize we are all the same and lets us truly live as one sole race.

In the prologue to the book _Breaking Through _by Fransico Jimenez are a few words by Thomas Mann from his novel, _Dr. Faustus_.

Mann writes:

"There is at bottom only one problem in the world…

How does one break through?

How does one get into the open?

How does one burst the cocoon and become a butterfly?"

I guess that one big problem was solved. I was breaking through in my own way. I didn't have to do something crazy like learn a language to fit in to a new culture.

The easiest way to 'break through' is by enjoying something that every culture has in common.


End file.
